Small Town Duke: A Modern Aristocracy Billionaire Romance (Billionaires of Ballytirrel Book 1)

by Sara Forbes

  Lady Ellen’s bluntness makes it easier to lie. “I wanted to visit my aunt.”

  Her eyebrows hike up her well-preserved face.

  I simply return her stare.

  “I suppose it was due,” Lady Ellen says.

  She clearly doesn’t believe a word of it. I really couldn’t care less.

  She eases herself down on a sofa and waves her manicured nails to the chair opposite her—a monstrosity of a thing with golden upholstery and ornate wooden arms. If the idea is to make me feel like a naughty princess perched on a throne, it’s kind of working, but then again, I like feeling naughty.

  And I wouldn’t mind feeling naughty with that son of hers.

  Trying to keep such thoughts at bay, my gaze drifts over the gleaming, white top of the grand piano that looks like something Elton John would use on stage. The polished lid reflects the ornately patterned white plaster of the ceiling. Oil paintings with dour faces on the walls stare down. Dust motes twinkle in the air, adding a fuzziness to the scene.

  It’s all a bit absurd.

  “This job requires discipline and adherence to a strict routine. The main tasks are keeping the floors clean and the rooms ventilated and heated. We don’t polish the wood or the silver every day. Unlike some people, we don’t see the need to keep up appearances…”

  Lady Ellen’s voice is getting chirpier as she warms to the subject.

  “You won’t have to worry about cooking. I have special meals delivered for myself. Danny does his own thing—he’s hardly ever here, and hardly ever indoors when he is.”

  Suddenly, I’m listening again.

  “Just prepare teas and coffees in the still-room for my guests, and occasionally for Danny and myself. The chicken coop takes some getting used to, but nothing that you can’t manage with some help.”

  She pauses and regards me solemnly. “Have you ever worked in a grand house before?”

  “I’ve never even seen a grand house before.”

  Her mouth twitches. I suspect that’s as close to a smile or a laugh that this lady ever gets.

  “Well, that doesn’t matter, as long as you have the right character for the job. And you look fit and healthy.”

  My head is bobbing like a bobblehead as she explains more chores, but it’s hard to take a single word of this seriously. It’s like I’ve whooshed back in time to a period drama.

  On the other hand, I’m quite liking the idea of a steady second source of income. I glance down and check the wi-fi signal on my phone. Yep, it’s at full.

  Lady Ellen gazes at me expectantly, as if expecting me to say something. “So, what do you think of a full-time position here, six days a week with Sundays off?”

  I sit forward. It’s time I set her straight on who I am and where I’m coming from. “The thing is, Lady Ellen, my aunt may have misrepresented my case a little. I’m not looking for a full-time job, only a part-time one. I have my own internet business.”

  “I see.” She fingers the lace of her blouse sleeve and sits back, as if ready to be entertained.

  I proceed to tell her and what I do, my creative processes, how the money gets made. I also explain the internet problem. She’s a good listener. As she nods along, her initial expression of distrust mellows into interest.

  “A part-time job is also a possibility,” she says. “Mornings only.”

  “Also, I, uh, don’t have a work visa,” I say. “So, this whole discussion may have been moot.”

  “That won’t be a problem,” she says with the air of Obi-Wan Kenobi fobbing off imperial stormtroopers.

  “So, are you saying I have the job?”

  She offers me a faint smile. “The fact that you’re still here means you have the job. Perhaps I should have made that more explicit.”

  I nod. But now that I have the job, I’m not sure I want it. I bet this woman has a list of rules as long as the winding road up to this mansion. It already sounds too much like hard work. Grates? Chickens? Ugh.

  Still, there are perks. Like the sole use of a drawing-room with impeccable internet to use every afternoon after all my chores are done. Also, this magnificent view of rolling, green fields. And the chance of meeting the man of the house again. Even if he isn’t around much.

  “What’s the remittance?” I ask.

  “You mean the wages?” she asks.

  I nod.

  “Twenty-five Euros an hour.”

  About thirty dollars. That’s not bad! I can squeeze all my client work into the afternoons as long as I can be sure I get the space and the internet connection.

  “Is it not what you were expecting?” Lady Moore asks, a gentler note entering her voice.

  My head darts up. “Oh no, no. It’s great, really.”

  “Good. It’s settled then.” She rearranges her blazer in a way that makes it clear the conversation is over and she’d like me to go.

  “Great. When should I start?”

  She adjusts her lapel. “Why don’t we say tomorrow?”

  “Sure.” Then with as much dignity as I can manage, I rise from my golden throne and leave.

  ***

  I return to Nuala’s house. The road doesn’t seem so long this time around and I know where to beware of the puddles and horse-shit. My aunt meets me in the hall when I walk in. Nobody seems to lock their doors around here.

  “Nailed it,” I tell her, wiping my feet.

  She looks at me questioningly.

  “The job. I got it.”

  “Ah yes, I know.”

  “How?”

  Nuala cocks her head toward the sitting room. “Come, we’ll have some tea.”

  I follow her into the sitting room. She pours me a cup of steaming, weak-looking tea before she begins. “I’m not saying you couldn’t have got the job on your own,” she begins, “but the Moores owe me a favor from years ago.” She hands me the cup and points to a jug of milk. I pour in a few drops although it feels unnatural to mix milk in with my tea.

  I wait for her to continue, but she doesn’t.

  “What kind of favor?” I ask.

  “Oh,” her voice lowers to a hush. “I can’t actually tell you that, love. Suffice to say, there’s not much she wouldn’t do for me.”

  I nod. “Well, it must have been a good thing.”

  “Ah, it’s so long ago. Thirty years…” she sighs. “Anyway, did she offer you the twenty-five an hour?”

  “She did.”

  “Grand so.” My aunt rises and lifts the tea-pot off the table. “Oh. Did she happen to mention the Callaghans?”

  I cast my mind back, but it’s all a bit of a blur—correction, a bit of a blur and a very vivid memory of the hunk with the black hair and blue eyes. “Don’t think so. Why?”

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  I decide to ask her something I’ve been curious about. “When do I get to meet Patrick and Sean?”

  “Of course!” She laughs. “Silly me. You must be curious to meet your cousins. Well, Patrick’s off in Qatar, so you’ll not likely be seeing him at all. He’s been there for four years. We only see him at Christmas, and not every Christmas, mind you. He’s married now to a big, tall Turkish woman. Too busy, don’t you know?”

  “Kids?”

  “Not yet.”

  “And Sean?”

  She smiles indulgently. “He lives down in the village. You’ll bump into him this evening, no doubt. He’s dying to meet you. I wouldn’t let him come around yesterday because I knew you were tired.”

  “Neither of them wanted to run your farm?” I ask gently. Isn’t that the way of country folk, handing down the farms to the offspring?

  She sighs. “When Paddy Senior died two years back, he made it clear he had no desire to have his sons toiling the earth as he had done. We sold off a lot of it—to the Moores actually. There’s no money in it anymore. The organic niche is just enough to sustain me, along with my jewelry, but it’s not enough for a growing family. Once I go, it’ll be gone. The Lannigans of Ballytir
rel will be no more, for Sean’s as likely to emigrate. He’s not finding anyone good enough for him here.”

  “That’s sad,” I say.

  “You’re telling me,” she says.

  But I’m looking forward to meeting my cousin Sean now. I gaze out the window, over the peaty ground, across rolling, green fields, to the distant blue hills. Why am I getting a feeling of something pulling at me?

  I don’t want to get entrenched here in any way that’ll make it hard to leave. All I ask of this remote oasis is that it keeps me safe from Brett for long enough that he gives up. A month, maybe? It’s not much of a plan, but it’s the only way I know to protect myself. If I make some extra money then it’s an added perk.

  7

  DANNY

  I’m down in the post office trying to avoid conversation, but unfortunately, Sean Lannigan doesn’t seem to want to ignore me today.

  “Heard my cousin Shannon’s starting work with you,” he remarks taking my parcels for the Irish Horse Association and stamping them.

  I narrow my eyes, looking at him properly for possibly the first time ever. With his red-blond hair, freckles, and long chin, I see precious little family resemblance. “That’s right.”

  “And she’ll be here ‘til the Summer, is it?”

  From the way the background chatter has died down, everyone else in the shop wants to know, too. The only sound is the hum of the cooling cabinet that holds the Cokes and Fantas.

  “I don’t know,” I say. “You’d have to ask my mother.”

  Sean grins, his fringe flopping over his forehead. “Next time I see Lady Ellen in here, I’ll be sure to do that.”

  All around, there are chuckles and sniggers. Everyone knows my mother would never grace this post-office with her presence.

  Yes, Sean Lannigan is a joker. I only come here out of sheer necessity once a week, to pick up parcels and send them. Traipsing down to Cork each time, or even the next parish, would be woefully inefficient, so I endure the conversations with Sean and his eager audience. It’s not normally this bad.

  “Mrs. Muldoon will be back on duty soon,” I tell him. “I don’t expect your cousin will be in our employ too long.”

  “Oh yeah, how did Mary’s follow-up appointment go with Dr. O’Leary anyway?” Sean stamps the next parcel loudly. “It was Wednesday, wasn’t it?”

  “Thursday. It went fine. Thank you.”

  He nods and rings up the price. I put in my card, get the receipt, and proceed toward the door with my parcels as fast as I can without making it look too obvious that I’m rushing.

  The door opens, the bell jangles, and in barges Niall Callaghan. I don’t think I’m imagining the collective intake of breath.

  I straighten to my full height which equals his six-foot frame even if he’s stockier than I am. What’s he doing here? He knows I always come here at this time. This is my time. This is a deliberate provocation.

  “Good day, Niall,” I tell him curtly. Might as well play this civilly even if he’s the one breaking the rules.

  “Is it?” he asks, brushing past me. “Heya, Sean,” he calls out jovially. “How’s it going?”

  “Niall,” Sean says with a far broader smile than the one he gave me. “Come on, the lottery’s about to be announced.”

  “Goodie.” Niall stomps over to the post-office counter, grinning and waving at the other patrons who all smile back. Some of their gazes dart back to me, but I don’t care. How typical of a Callaghan to be excited about the lottery. The horse-betting isn’t enough for him. Hapless, gambling, romantic idiots, the lot of them.

  ***

  I come back home and march around in the stables before I go into the house. Seeing Niall Callaghan is bugging me still. I should forget about him but he’s up to something, telling me something, storming the post office like that when he knew I’d be there. There’s no such thing as coincidences. Still, I won’t let it derail me as I have a heap of stuff to get through this afternoon—ordering the slate roof tiles for the east wing, for starters. I may try scraping off some of the dry rot seeing as the weather’s good to see the extent of what I’m dealing it.

  Three hours later, my mood has improved. The dry rot may look disgusting—basically big mushrooms that you definitely shouldn’t eat—but it’s relatively easy to whack it off any surfaces it’s infested. I’m wearing a face mask so as not to breathe spores. It’s heavy work and I’ve stripped down to my vest. God, I need a shower. But first I need a cup of tea.

  I head up to my library and jangle the bell. Then I remember—once again— that Mrs. Muldoon isn’t here. I groan at my dumb mistake. Now I’m going to have to deal with Shannon. While I like the idea of having her in our house and being a help to Mother, I didn’t actually plan on meeting her.

  I listen for her footsteps on the stairs, but there’s only silence and the squeal of wind that comes in under the east-facing downstairs door. I don’t want her to come up here—I’d rather just go down and fix the tea myself.

  I throw on a blazer and go downstairs to cancel the order.

  She’s in the kitchen, frowning into her phone.

  “Good afternoon, Shannon,” I say.

  She turns with a start and shoves the phone in her pocket. “Oh, hi there.” She smiles, her chocolate-brown eyes alight with life. “You startled me.”

  Her face is flushed, making her every bit as alluring as yesterday, but now she’s my employee and not just some stranger at the door, so I’m extra careful about where my eyes are landing. I only linger long enough to appreciate the figure-hugging Avengers’ T-shirt and the painted-on jeans.

  Mother told me she runs her own online business. I want to know more. But she’s also the cousin of Sean Lannigan and anything we say to each other will be common knowledge in the village within a day.

  I wonder what she makes of me, standing here sweaty and grubby, with my blazer thrown over a vest top that isn’t even tucked into my waist properly.

  She’s gazing at me openly like I’m an exhibit in the National Gallery.

  I proceed further into the kitchen and walk around so that the breakfast bar separates us. I debate whether to sit on the stool opposite her or remain standing so she has to look up at me. I opt for the latter.

  “Did you hear the bell?” I ask.

  “Yeah, but there was no one at the door.”

  “That’s because it wasn’t a doorbell,” I say. “It’s the tea bell.”

  “The tea bell?” She looks at me blankly.

  “The bell we ring when we want tea or some other refreshments,” I explain. “The idea being that when you hear it, you come to either me or my mother—the bells have different tones—you’ll have no problem distinguishing them—and you ask us what we want. It’s usually going to be tea. And then you prepare that and deliver it.”

  “For real?” she asks.

  “My mother didn’t mention this?”

  “Well.” Her eyes dart downwards. “She might have, but it didn’t sink in, I guess. It was a lot of information. So, you’re saying want me to serve you tea?”

  “When we ring the bell, yes.”

  “In, like, a teapot?”

  “In a teapot, yes.” I hold her gaze levelly. Her dark eyes sparkle with mischief. I suddenly realize that she’s messing with me. I can’t help wondering how those eyes would look dull and heavy-lidded with desire.

  “Everything going okay otherwise?” I rise and saunter over to the kettle and turn it on because she hasn’t taken the hint, even now, and all this talk of tea makes me really want one.

  “So far, so good,” she chirps behind me. I wonder if she’s checking me out but I don’t turn around.

  “Did you feed the hens already?” I glance out the window at the critters that are pecking ferociously at the ground.

  “Yeah. Little bastards.”

  I spin around. “If it were up to me, I’d have them converted to chicken nuggets.”

  She laughs—that rich, mellow sound aga
in. “We’re on the same page there. But your mother seems to like them.”

  “Mm, she does.” I’m pleased that she’s noticed that. “And the horses?” I ask.

  “Uh—no, not yet.”

  A definite note of anxiety enters her voice. I study her expression, tight around the jaw now and fear flashes in her eyes.

  “Why, is there a problem?”

  “There’s no problem.” She squares her shoulders. “Why?”

  I lean across the bar and gaze into her face. “You’re scared, aren’t you?”

  “N-no.”

  Our eyes lock and I drown in those pools of brown. Her eyelashes are thick and luscious. I imagine what they’d feel like brushing against my cheek if I moved in another six inches and kissed her.

  She breaks the gaze and sinks back on her chair. “All right, the truth is, I’m scared of them.”

  “Really?”

  She huffs out a breath that lifts strands of dark hair laying against her cheeks. I could just reach out and move that hair with a casual sweep of my fingers, push it gently behind her ear, continue down her neck...

  The kettle starts whistling. I get up and switch it off and remain standing by the counter at a safe distance.

  “Look, maybe you all grow up with them,” Shannon says. “But I don’t think I’ve ever even seen a live horse until now.”

  I nearly scald myself with the boiling water. I put the kettle down firmly. “They’re big animals, and that feeling that they're outside of your control is either going to be thrilling or worrying, depending on your definition.”

  “Uh yeah,” she says slowly. “Terrifying is probably closest to my definition.”

  I smile. “If you have a place that takes good care of you and your horse—as you do here—it should become exciting. Learning to ride is fun, and learning to care for a horse is deeply satisfying.”

  She’s listening intently, so I continue. “Once you know how to ride and can gallop down a hill and jump a creek or a log, it’ll be nothing short of thrilling.”